


Mistress Beauchamp

by Zoe1078



Series: Pre Wedding Fic [1]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 06:31:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7211726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoe1078/pseuds/Zoe1078
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little ficlet inspired by the following Tumblr prompt: “Pre-Wedding Jamie and Claire are my weakness and I've always thought Jamie's crush on her was incredibly adorable and obviously the sexual tension was pretty great too. Perhaps a missing scene from these episodes where Jamie thinks about her (naughty or not)?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistress Beauchamp

 

Lord, but she was lovely. He selected a spot diagonally across the campfire so as to be able to watch her surreptitiously. He could easily stare past her into the dark forest while simultaneously watching her in his peripheral vision. Her eyes sparkled in the firelight, but they were not the delighted ones he had seen when he had translated Gwyllyn’s songs for her, nor the fiery ones she displayed when he had caught her trying to escape, nor the warm ones she wore when she tended to his wounds. No. This time her eyes were sad. 

He'd never seen a woman look so enticing when she was sad. Certainly it was partly due to her beauty, but that wasn't all. He wanted to gather her close, to hold her in his lap just as he did on their first day at Leoch, to give her comfort, to be her balm. That memory was vivid in his mind, and the feel of her was forever imprinted into his skin. It was more intimate than any other experience of his adult life, somehow more heated than any kiss and more consuming than any embrace he had ever shared with another lass. Had it lasted seconds or hours? He didn't know, only that it hadn’t lasted long enough. 

Her enigmatic expression entranced him. Of what was she thinking? Did she see visions in the flames? Her late husband? The family awaiting her in France? The parents she said she'd lost? Was she thinking of her fate, or something else entirely? He wished he knew. He wanted to know her, to know everything about her, to know her secrets and her sorrows, her joys and her heart. 

Other lasses were so different. They coquettishly giggled as he passed, or dared a fleeting touch of his sleeve, or sought compliments for their dresses or hair. Claire laughed from deep in her chest, and the sound was genuine and true. When she touched him, it was deliberate, purposeful, and healing. She didn’t care what anyone thought of her, so long as she commanded their respect. And she paid no heed to her appearance, not even when they had found her shivering in naught but her shift, hair wet from rain. She should have been frightened, should have feared for her safety with no one to protect her, surrounded by strange men. But no, not Claire. She faced them all with authority and vigor, and in doing so, kept the men from breaking his arm. Oh, but she was a brave wee thing. He had never met anyone like her. 

No other lass had never looked so tempting, and she wasn't doing anything at all. Her hair had escaped its knot, curled around her face, and tickled her long, regal neck. He wanted to brush it back so he could see her face better. Her fair skin glowed in the darkness, and the heat from the fire sent a pretty pink flush up her cheeks. He knew if he touched her face, her skin would be as soft as the richest silk. His fingers twitched in an unconscious gesture of the way he would run his hand along the gentle planes of her face. Her lips were a deep shade of rose, and full. Were they as soft as they appeared? What he wouldn't give to taste them, to feel the warmth of her breath on his mouth. His eyes dropped to the swell of her bosom, which looked inviting despite her concealing layers. Not a day passed since they had met that he didn't think of the way her breasts looked covered only by her shift. And not a night went by when he didn't dream of pulling that shift off her shoulders to see what she looked like underneath. He already had an idea of how she would feel. The long ride when they had first met was both a blessing and a curse. It taught him the lines of her body and the smell of her hair, not to mention the roundness of her arse and the way she fit perfectly between his thighs. 

What he wouldn't give to be one of the hairs on her head, the scarf round her shoulders, or the log upon which she sat. 

Next to him, Angus bumped him with his shoulder. "What is it?”

"What?" he asked blankly, suddenly realizing that Mistress Beauchamp’s curious eyes were now trained on him.

Angus explained, "You made a sound."

On his other side, Rubert teased, "A wee grunt.”

“More of a whimper,” Angus said loudly.

“I did no such thing!” he protested, though he feared it was true. 

Rupert continued, “Something bothering ye, lad? Bit of an ache, I reckon, 'tween the thighs.” 

Angus nudged his elbow and tipped his chin at Mistress Beauchamp. “Perhaps yon widow can cure you of what ails ye."

_ Oh no _ . Apparently his staring hadn't been as surreptitious as he thought, and now the MacKenzie men had drawn Claire's attention to him. Jamie felt heat rise into his cheeks and to the tips of his ears. Hopefully the darkness would conceal the redness of his skin. He didn’t want her to see him blushing like a maiden. 

"Do you need my help, Jamie?" she offered. Angus and Rupert began to laugh.  _ Please, no _ . Must she be so helpful all the time? Could this possibly get any worse? "Did you hurt yourself? Do you want me to take a look?" Despite himself, yes he did, and yes it could.

“Aye!” Rupert answered for him. 

_ Oh, God.  _

Angus added, “He's in dire need of you, Mistress. Requires your healing touch, as it were.”

"No! No! Stop!” Jamie held up his hands when she stood. “I mean, no thank ye, mistress. I'm quite well."

Rupert argued, "Frasers are so stubborn! Mistress Beauchamp, he surely requires your services even if he willna admit it. Suffering, he is."

Angus waggled his eyebrows at Claire. "And if he refuses your services, I would be happy to partake."

Raucous laughter erupted around the campfire, and though she had not originally been paying enough attention to the men to know what they were going on about, she did now. She folded her arms over her chest. “Actually, Jamie seems healthy as a horse to me. But Rupert, I know you've been struggling with those terrible piles.”

Rupert turned a bright shade of red and sputtered, “I-I dinna have piles!”

She arched a single, sardonic brow. “I've seen you squirming about on that horse and scratching your arse. Why, you dig around in there like you're going to find gold!” Across the fire, Dougal spit out his drink, and the men howled with laughter. She ignored them and continued thoughtfully, “Though I suppose it could be pinworms. They itch like the devil.”

Rupert’s jaw dropped open, and his voice elevated an octave. “Pinworms? What on earth are those?”

She explained calmly, “Well, they’re just like they sound. Tiny little worms that breed in the gut. The females lay their eggs in the flesh of the rectum. Would you like me to take a look?”

“Keep away from me and my arse!” 

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Mistress Beauchamp said as she folded her hands primly in her lap. “You’re not the only one who’s been scratching himself silly. Angus has a large family of lice that have made their home under his kilt. Isn’t that right, Angus?”

Angus made a choking sound and held down the front of his kilt. Mistress Beauchamp rooted around in her bag. “Actually, if you'd like, I can help both of you right now." She grabbed a cup, filled it with water from the kettle hanging over the fire, and dropped in some herbs. "Here, drink this." She extended it to Rupert, who wouldn’t touch it.

He eyed it suspiciously. "What is that?" 

"Tea made from fenugreek and nettle. It will relieve your constipation, which will help with those piles. You don't eat enough roughage. None of you do."

Rupert refused to take the cup. "If you think I'm going to drink that, you’ve lost yer mind. Surely you've poisoned it.”

Claire simply placed it on the ground in front of him. "Your choice. If you’re not careful, the piles could start to bleed. Then you’ll look like a girl having her woman's blood for the first time.”

Another roar of laughter erupted around them. And no one laughed harder than Angus, but not for long. Leaving Rupert glaring into the tea, Claire moved to the fire and pulled out a stick, blowing out the flames on the other end. She turned to Angus. "Now it's your turn. Up now, lift your kilt. The best way to get rid of those vermin is to burn them out." 

“Are you tryin’ to light me on fire? Those are my most valuable parts! Get away!” Angus tripped over the log trying to back away from her. 

While he was on the ground, she pulled a small, sharp knife out of her pocket. "If the heat makes you uncomfortable, I could shave you. If the hair is gone, the lice will go to. I have a steady hand. I haven’t slipped and cut anyone in months, I promise. Which one would you prefer?" She held up both weapons.

"Don't come near me, ye mad woman!" Angus yelled, but his voice was full of amusement.

She nonchalantly shrugged, tossed the stick back into the fire, and slipped the knife back into her pocket. “Suit yourself. So long as you don’t mind them laying more eggs.” Then she serenely sat down on the log again. Now the sparkle in her eye showed mirth, not sadness.

This time, when those lovely eyes met his, instead of hurriedly looking away, Jamie sent her a smile, which she returned. It sent a jolt to his gut that gave him the courage to rise, cross the several steps that separated them, and sit next to her. “Ye do ken how to put a man in his place, don't ye?”

She chuckled, and he wanted to hear the sound again. “A girl has to stand up for herself, after all.”

“Och, I'm sorry I didna stop them. You deserve their respect, and ye ken that you already have mine.”

“Or perhaps you just don't want to find yourself on the other end of my sharp tongue?”

The truth was just the opposite, in fact, and he flushed once more, thinking of it. “The sharp tongue I’ll take, but no’ the fire or your wee knife. But I like ye fine, so I'll take my chances.” He handed her his flask, which, after a brief pause, she took with a nod. 

“ _ Slainte _ ,” she said before taking a drink.

When she gave it back to him, he replied, “ _ Do dheagh slainte mhath _ .” He took a larger gulp and tried to fool himself that the heat washing through his body was due to the liquor. Then he handed back the flask.

She took another sip. “What does it mean? Here I’ve been saying it, and I've no idea. We could cursing each other, for all I know.”

The smile that spread across his face probably looked foolish, but he no longer cared. She was a clever woman, the cleverest he had met, and undeniably had the best sense of humor. It might be his favorite thing about her. Then her smile widened to mirror his, and he knew he would never be able to choose just one favorite thing about her. He raised the flask to her once more. “To your good health, Mistress Beauchamp.”

“And to yours, Mr. MacTavish.”

As the night wore on, he conceded to himself that Rupert had been right all along. Not only that, but the ache was worse, not better. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to notice, so he didn't mind. It was a pleasant sort of torture. They kept drinking and talking until the fire burned low, and then they parted ways to sleep. Jamie watched her, just yards away, and replayed the night’s events with a lazy smile on his face, rewriting what had happened. In his mind, he sat by her the entire night and called her Claire, not the formal Mistress Beauchamp, and she knew his real name. In fact, in his imagination, he didn’t say goodnight at all, and when the fire went out, he led her back to his bedroll and warmed her body with his own. 

The last thing he said was actually out loud, in a low, nearly inaudible whisper. “Sleep well,  _ mo nighean donn. _ ”

 


End file.
